


Pass the Torch

by kadielkrieger



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:01:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kadielkrieger/pseuds/kadielkrieger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alona knows this isn’t good for her. She just can’t seem to stop. Misha makes the decision easier by showing his hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pass the Torch

As a general rule, Alona avoids entanglements. Not for the sake of her career necessarily; she only wishes she were famous enough for anyone to care. But because she's nicer than that. Better than that.

More importantly, entanglements never end well. Or so she gathers. Others never end at all, not officially. And yet, of the former Neptune crew, she's the only one who didn't get an invite to Jason's wedding. She's also willing to bet she's the only one that found out about baby Dohring while standing in line at the grocery store.

If nothing else, the untimely character death taught her how to squeeze every last drop out of a guest spot and how to keep her hands to herself.

That was before she met Misha.

And it isn't so much that she reneged on her self-signed and sealed promise to not fuck coworkers, but more that Misha never gave her a chance. Allegedly, it's part of his charm.

Alona gets it, of course she does. He's like the sun rising on the Negev - bright and white and fierce against the cliffs, somehow all-consuming in the after burn of his disarming candor. A contradiction. So, yes, she'd been swept along, is still somehow sweeping when they cross paths on the jet stream web that weaves from one side of the country to the next, one first-class cabin to the next.

Every time he finds her wearing that wicked, crooked smile, it crumbles her resolve. And every time she vows never again, he takes her somewhere new - his tongue at her throat and a knee braced against her thigh to hold her steady as she unfolds.

Nashville will be the same; she accepts that, can feel the knowledge resonate in her bones with an electrifying but entirely unsatisfying sense of purpose. She craves him like cupcakes, empty calories that go nowhere good but stick with her far longer than they should. But Misha lives a life unfettered by should and shouldn't and can't. If he wants, he finds a way. What he doesn't want, will never want, is normal.

It isn't serious between them. How could it be? Once upon a time, she'd been grateful. She'd buried her arm elbow deep in the proverbial cookie jar and feasted, smeared chocolate on her chin and reveled in the freedom of it. Now, she cares too much. Or maybe too little. She hasn't quite worked out which, only that there is no 'with' when it comes to Misha. And that even if there were, she's not the 'with' for him. Her whirlwind blows too slowly to truly keep up.

By the time she's navigating a maze of narrow corridors at Union Station Hotel, whatever 'it' is doesn't matter beyond the ending.

"You're late," he says, a familiar wicked smile stretching his lips into intoxicating shapes. His cheeks look flushed, his hair more mussed than usual and if her fears prove founded, he's already been in her mini-bar.

She'd stopped wondering how he manages to find out her room number three months after she quit asking. Some questions, after all, aren't meant to be answered. So Alona returns the smile - soft and sweet - and lets herself feel the ache behind her teeth at the thought of one last grand sugar rush before she quits cold turkey.

"I'm only late if you were waiting," she says, and Misha barks a laugh that resonates oddly against the exposed marble, bounces loudly around tight corners.

For a moment he _looks_ at her, keen eyes seeking something they must find because in the next he slides a key card from his breast pocket and lets himself into her room. She can only hope he hasn't gotten to the champagne. Or the truffles.

"I hope you don't mind," he says as he pushes the door open. Hefting her suitcase inside is an apology for the invasion, a small taste of the Misha shorthand she already misses. "I convinced them it was our anniversary," he continues, smile fading into something more genuine at a quiet rustling sound from the room beyond that Alona can't quite place.

"Of course you did," she says, at a loss for what else to say and suddenly she wants to cling to him in spite of reason's clear directive.

Misha is a rarity. Flawed still, but more authentic in his imperfection. He takes his time opening the closet, settling her suitcase on the stand inside. He does it because he knows how much she loves his hands, the strength in them, the surety. Whatever she may think of this thing they have, it is precise in its single clear definition - once he holds her, she's safe. She can be herself completely, speak plainly without fear of judgment. And while Misha will never remember her Nana's name or which regiment she served with, he holds her most damning secrets closer than anyone else ever has.

It gives him leave to take liberties others would never be allowed. So when he smoothes his hands over her shoulders and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, she lets him do it even though she should probably be furious.

Now that she's closer, the sound is clearer - more defined but also more confusing and Misha's doing his best to distract her.

Alona tries to peer past him, cursing the ballet flats that put her at a disadvantage. Not that it matters, because he catches her chin so she'll meet his eyes, trying to convey some deep meaning that gets lost in several layers of translation.

"Since it's our 'anniversary'," he says. "I thought an appropriately extravagant gift was in order."

This time, the rustle turns into a snap and creak, a soft series of thumps and a voice.

"I am _not_ a gift," the voice says.

Instinct pushes Alona back half a step, Misha's thumb riding hard against her jaw.

The face hovering in what was empty space over Misha's right shoulder confirms her suspicions about the owner of the voice. And yet somehow, it makes even less sense.

His name won't come, but the, "How?" is easy. So is, "What?"

A sly grin stretches Jensen's perfect mouth, her worldview skewing sharply when his forearms settle into the curves cut by Misha's hipbones, his fingers drawing deceptively lazy circles against Misha's stomach. His chin fits the bend of Misha's neck as if it was always meant to and Alona can feel the warmth of his breath on her skin when he laughs.

"I think we broke her," Jensen says and Misha hums thoughtfully.

"I think appearances can be deceiving," Misha answers, and even though she's not completely sure what he means, Alona lets him tug her back. Because apparently this is happening.

The ridiculous Jensen-smell filling up her nostrils tells her so.

Hindsight being what it is, she can see it - see them caught in sideways glances, eye-fucking each other for pay with no one the wiser. Misha has that effect on people - can baffle with truth as readily as bullshit. And in his defense, they'd never discussed it, never agreed to some half-assed exclusivity neither really wanted.

Of _course_ Misha's fucking Jensen.

It makes letting go easier, lightens a load she never realized she was carrying and if she's going out, she can't think of any better way.

Because, yes, she's predictable. She wants Jensen. Has maybe always wanted Jensen in the same way any sane person who's met him does. For her, it's curiosity built of 'what if' that she'd never have acted on instead of a burning desire, but there all the same.

Now, thanks to Misha, there's no reason she can't take. Without the cameras and crew, without Dean and Jo stuck between them and a hundred people milling around aimlessly, there's abso-fucking-lutely no reason to resist.

So she doesn't.

Someone makes a noise when she leans up to lick her way into Jensen's mouth. It's deep and hungry, so wantonly male it flips her stomach over and tries to turn it inside out. She can't be sure which of them it is until her balance fails and she rights herself by way of Misha’s chest. Then she feels it beneath her palm, the rattle of it in his ribcage. She also feels the clutch of Misha's fist in the small of her back as he crushes her closer, the knobs of Jensen's knuckles sharp against her stomach.

Kissing Jensen shouldn't be a surprise. Same lips. Same skin. Same tongue. In the absence of the sideshow, he's different though - both more reckless and more demanding, less about getting it right and more about getting off. She reaches for him because she has to, nails scraping through the short hair at his nape, and even with Misha between them he shudders hard enough to shake her, one of his hands sliding free to find a home on her hip. It's every inch what she needs and she catches herself in the beginnings of a laugh just in time, covering it with a gasp as Jensen's grip goes tight.

Alona had always figured Jensen for a master chameleon. Nice to know she hasn't lost her touch.

She pecks at the corner of his mouth just to watch it quirk and refuses, pointedly, to look at Misha.

"Takes more than a pretty face to break me," she says and it sounds far more brazen than she feels.

Misha chuckles darkly and buries his face against her neck, fingers flexing and stretching until they're tangled with Jensen's because he knows her, knows what it is that keeps her trapped here between them like a doe caught in an inconvenient pair of headlights. He seems to _think_ he does anyway.

For all the backwards certainty he's offered, Misha never has worried about those ties that bind, the way he effortlessly razes the landscape of someone's life until what's left, while not unpleasant, is wholly unrecognizable. Unless that's what this is, an expression of his concern, his way of reinforcing the definition of what they are to one another. What he and Jensen are to each other. That he belongs to both no one and anyone because those nomad genes are a constant whip at his back, pushing him on and on and on until he circles back again.

In spite of his presumed point, Alona feels him watching, the purity of his happiness radioactive in its intensity.

Jensen, unsurprisingly, only has eyes for Misha and Alona wants to warn him, but she's not sure what there is to fear. Misha makes no promises about or apologies for who he is. And who better to command his attention than someone who's more mystery than fact, someone who requires constant conquering and lives for quiet reinvention by way of sarcasm. For his part, Misha simply noses in behind her ear and breathes deep, lashes tickling at her hairline like he's trying to commit her to memory. Like he's more aware than he could ever be.

"Aren't you going to open him?" Misha asks, lips finally landing warm and wet against her skin.

It misses condescension by a long, country mile. Which is just as well, because Jensen takes about as much offense as the situation allows. An eye-roll and an elbow later, Misha's not pressed between them anymore and Jensen's hands are splayed wide against the small of her back, his pinky working up under the hem of her shirt as if it's not sure of the welcome.

"Don't mind him," Jensen says, rough and deep and with a subtle slip of twang that means he's comfortable here, that he trusts them.

His eyes tell a different story entirely, but Alona forgives the lie, says, “Oh, I don’t,” and smiles.

The unspoken truth - that to know Misha is to mind him - might as well remain so. They both understand what it is to find yourself inexplicably at Misha's mercy, that the best and also worst way to show him up is to beat him at whatever ridiculous game he's intent on playing. Especially since in this case the whole point is to make them play. That's the problem with beating Misha, winning is almost always less pleasant than losing and to defeat him now would mean leaving without her final fix and without satisfying her curiosity about Jensen.

The bed squeaks behind her. Shoes thud. Fabric falls. And somehow in the midst of Misha's obvious presumption, Alona makes her peace with this willing surrender. Maybe it's because this won't matter in the morning. More likely it's because she wants to. Jensen's gaze flicks over her shoulder, furrow forming between his brows as he worries his lower lip with his teeth. If Alona didn't know better, she'd peg it as uncertainty, but it's Jensen and for all his supposed diffidence he always knows exactly what he's doing.

Always.

Whatever the cause for the momentary indecision, she takes the weight of it for him, trusting him to take _her_ weight when she wraps her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. He huffs an uneven breath against her shoulder that sounds like _fuck_ and palms her ass so perfectly she arches against him, every nerve suddenly singing for more and now. Just as suddenly, her vague interest turns to hunger, fistfuls of Jensen's T-shirt clutched between her fingers as she drags it up over his head. For a second, she abandons herself to the taste of him, the scent of him more potent in the heat rising between them. She's so completely focused that she loses track of Misha until he's on her, all bare skin and roving hands.

His grin is wide enough for her to catch in the corner of her eye, but when he says, "You have to admit, I have the best ideas," his voice is pitched low and he's staring at the spit-shined curve of Jensen's lip, most likely willing it to magically migrate more interesting places.

If nothing else, Alona understands the topical workings of Misha's mind, and she _is_ grateful. Because, yes, Jensen's pretty and because for the very, very few times she's done this there's only been one dick in the mix and she's always wondered what it would be like to watch. She relies on Jensen's balance and the solid wall of warm Misha at her back when she unwinds an arm, the stretch awkward as she slips her hand between Misha's skin and pants to find him already hard and heavy.

"I have better ones," she says, squeezing gently as Misha bucks into the friction she's so graciously offered. "I want you to fuck him. I want to watch."

No sooner have the words left her lips than she's scrambling to get her legs under her, Jensen and Misha both so eager to give her exactly what she's asked for they nearly knock her unconscious. Jensen has the presence of mind to hold fast at least, his arms banding so tight against her ribs it's a wonder she can breathe. The catch and carry is a matter of convenience rather than courtesy she finds, because Misha's already naked by the time Jensen sets her down on the bed. With his own jeans and boxers already pooled at his feet, it means Misha's so much more able to help Jensen. Obviously, they've done this before. A lot. But not so much the shine has worn off, not if the ferocity of Misha's grip is to be believed. Alona swallows hard at the sight of those familiar, infinitely capable hands working Jensen's belt buckle open with practiced ease.

Jensen stills them, gently, and Alona echoes Misha's frustrated sigh.

"You're sure?" Jensen asks, and he looks so young, so painfully solemn in that moment Alona feels her face flush hot.

As little experience as she's admittedly had with these sorts of arrangements, she's savvy enough to know that's not a question for now. Especially not since she's already given more than her consent. It makes her wonder about Jensen and whether he has actually done this before. Given what she knows about him and assuming he hasn't been screwing Misha all that long, it stands to reason that maybe he hasn't.

Which only makes it hotter.

She abandons her perch on the bed, a flurry of motion she doesn't care to straighten out past the ache between her legs. They're still standing close enough to kiss, Misha's hands patient and still on Jensen's belt, Jensen staring her down as she sidles up beside them.

Misha leans into her palm, lids drooping low when she sucks at his lip and kisses the cleft in his chin before batting his hands away.

"Yes," she says, drawing the Jensen's belt through its loops with a snap of leather, the denim rough against her fingertips as she pushes the button through its hole, unzips the zip.

Jensen's chest heaves once, shaking on the exhale.

She palms him through his boxers, careful, so careful not to take too much too soon and smiles up at him.

"I'm sure," she says then withdraws with slow steps. She lets her hair down as she does, slips her shirt up over her head, shimmying out of her leggings and kicking out of her flats decisively. Then and only then, does she scoot back against the headboard to wait for Jensen to decide whether or not _he's_ sure.

In the space of a breath the set of his jaw changes, his lips pressed thin for a nearly imperceptible moment before he strips himself the rest of the way down - decision made.

He's beautiful. They're both beautiful and completely real, from the un-sun-kissed state of Misha's pre-hiatus skin to the freckles splashed across Jensen's back. They fit together effortlessly and Misha hisses - a sharp, shallow sound - when Jensen grabs at him. They're silent otherwise, save the harsh pull of breath and the hushed rasp of skin on skin, and it freaks her out a little that they don't use or need words.

Misha pushes his meanings into the ether with his eyes. Jensen translates.

The silence drags on. Moments stretch to what feel like minutes and just as she begins to wonder whether they'll be content to stand there and stare at each other all night, Misha drops to his knees.

" _Jesus_ ," she says, because watching Misha work is almost as good as being the subject of his attentions. A long-lost wild night in a string of Vegas strip clubs had provided a plentiful education for her in that respect.

"Your Lord and alleged savior has nothing to do with this," Misha mutters absently, too busy waking Jensen's skin up to spare a glance for her. He slicks a path up the inside of Jensen's thigh with his tongue and Jensen turns into it, lazy and feline, his fingers tugging at Misha's hair.

"I've got plenty right here for you to worship," Jensen says, hips shifting to lay a long stripe of precome across Misha's cheek.

It’s corny and completely Jensen, but in this Misha seems more than happy to oblige, eagerly turning his head that fraction of an inch to wrap his lips around the head of Jensen’s cock. The tendons strung along the side of his neck go taut as he does and Jensen’s chin tips slowly skyward on a moan.

Alona leans up, can’t not because she has to touch someone, anyone. Even if it’s only herself. She settles instead for marking the bumps of Jensen’s spine with her fingertips, getting a feel for him before things pick up and turn to something too frantic to be appropriately processed. The farther south she drifts, the more vocal Jensen gets, his hips rolling back against her hand when it fits to the curve of his ass. He jerks and grabs at her wrist when she thumbs down between his cheeks, not to shove her away but to keep her from moving on. The weight of his hand is a firm, gentle pressure that hits her straight in the gut and when she looks up, they’re both watching her with an intensity that might scare a lesser woman.

Alona just feels powerful.

Misha moves away with a slick pop and a flutter of Jensen’s eyelids, and before Alona can untangle herself from the knots that they’ve both tied her in, Misha’s back and pressing a tube of apple-flavored slick into her free hand.

“I knew,” he whispers, breath hot against her neck. Then his hands are in her hair and he’s kissing her, his lips soft and warm, his tongue sweeping the salt and musk of Jensen into her mouth with reckless abandon. And she should know better than to let it go because he _doesn’t_ know where she’s going, what she’s doing once the suite door closes behind her. But she does.

“I knew,” he says again, softer, sweeter, and her heart breaks just a little as he slips away.

For a second she thinks it might be unfair of her to let this play out. But then she remembers the lube warming against her palm, the fact that he never asked her about any of this and she lets it go, popping the cap and slicking her fingers as Jensen automatically widens his stance. His enthusiasm, how eager he is to please is a welcome surprise that makes her wonder and _want_ all that much more. It’s strange at first, never having done this before, not knowing where to put her hands or how hard to push. Like all other sex, it comes down to instinct, what feels right and soon Jensen’s pushing back against her fingers at least as much as he’s leaning into Misha’s mouth. And since he’s hissing a string of obscenities fit to make the sleaziest stripper blush, Alona figures she’s doing something right.

She twists her hand, unable and unwilling to keep the grin off her face when Jensen makes a sharp noise in the back of his throat and gulps around the, “Misha,” he manages to get out.

Misha grins back at her around the curve of Jensen’s hip, his lips swollen and shining with spit, his hair tufting out in finger-mangled clumps. Innocent can’t possibly work for him in this state, but Misha tries it anyway.

“Yes?” he asks, all wide-eyed innocence and dark batting lashes - an effect he thoroughly ruins by sucking two fingers into his mouth.

Alona finds she doesn’t mind the loss of that mock purity because by the time she shakes her head at the absurdity of it all, those fingers are pushing in under her panties with unbearable precision. She curls around his hand, not caring that when she clings she’s getting lube everywhere. Only knowing that she doesn’t want it to stop, never wants it to stop. She whimpers when it does, Misha shoved out of range by the solid wall of Jensen that’s sprung up between them.

Jensen’s gentler with her, his touch covetous as he slides her panties down her hips and tosses them away. In one smooth motion, he bends, those perfect lips, that perfect tongue lapping at the wetness between her legs. And now she understands. Most of the “pretty” guys she’s been with are shit in bed. Their looks let them skate by on poor performance and selfishness. Jensen’s pretty, could be one of the prettiest, but he doesn’t take anything for granted – the soft hum he’s laying against her, the curl of his tongue lighting her up effortlessly.

He kisses the inside of her thigh and huffs a nervous laugh into her skin.

“Still okay with this?” he asks, his voice gone strained and hoarse.

Alona laughs with him, but takes care to keep her expression serious.

“If you don’t fuck me right now,” she says, “I’m going to fuck him and make you watch.”

Misha snorts, the bed dipping when he kneels next to her to press a kiss to her forehead.

“That’s my girl,” he says, and were it anyone else, she’d call it condescending but she knows he doesn’t mean anything by it.

And yet.

“I seem to remember expressing a specific interest,” she says. “If I’m _your_ girl, shouldn’t you give me what want?”

A fleeting look passes between them, so quick she’d have missed it if she wasn’t looking, then there are two pairs of hands manhandling her into place, two sets of lips shaping around a, “Yes, ma’am,” as if she ordered them to fuck for her benefit. Which she did, but…details.

She can’t see well from where she is, but it’s enough. Her knees hooked around Jensen’s thighs, Misha flushed against Jensen’s ass, Jensen’s mouth closed over her nipple, his tongue flicking a furious pattern across it. She feels it when Misha slides home, the grunt Jensen can’t hold back vibrating out across her skin. It makes her heart thump fast and hard like it might fly right out of her chest and she swears that Jensen must hear it because he buries his face between her breasts to breathe. The product in his hair makes a sticky mess that he doesn’t seem to mind and all the time he’s moving, rocking, bracing to take Misha in.

It might actually be the hottest thing she’s ever seen, Jensen unraveling on Misha’s dick and loving it, loving it.

She can’t help wanting to help, so she shifts and slides until her hips are even, until Jensen’s puffing hot air against her neck. Misha hooks his hands behind her knees when she draws them up and she’s grateful for the grounding because this is nowhere she’s ever been. May never be again.

Jensen chokes on air when she guides him in, a soft series of fucks spilling into her ear as he lets the momentum take him, his hips curling under to get deeper. It changes the angle enough to make Misha gasp and Alona’s eyes are drawn to him across the broad, freckled plane of Jensen’s back.

He’s close, so close she can feel it in his grip, the way his fingers seize and twitch on her thighs and it pulls her along, fumbling in his wake the way she always seems to be when they come together like this.

“So goddamn gorgeous,” Jensen sighs into her ear and she has close her eyes to it – the heat in Misha’s gaze, the undone sincerity of Jensen’s words. She knows better than to fight the tide though, so in the end she slips an arm between their bodies, finding that magic button by touch as Jensen ruts against her and Misha ruts against him.

Misha tips over the edge first - loud and messy, pulling out halfway through for no other reason than because he wants to. She always missed the appeal before, but it turns Jensen wild, his lips crushed fiercely to hers as he uses the new leverage to his advantage. He moves like a fighter or a dancer, long sinuous strokes meant for much different circumstances. Whatever the discord, it works for him and before long he’s stilled against her, her blood thrumming in her ears when his teeth find the curve of her shoulder and he spills. The tingle starts in her scalp, riding the length of her spine until she tumbles after, jittery little aftershocks clouding up her brain so she doesn’t feel Jensen slump onto the bed beside her, doesn’t see Misha move away.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.

Once the euphoria wears off, Alona comes back to herself and the promise she’s broken twice now. Though she guesses it doesn’t count since Jo’s dead and the likelihood she’ll be on set with either of them in any official capacity is so miniscule as to be laughable. None of this changes her mind.

Though she has figured out one thing - she cares too much.

The jealousy that twists her stomach when Misha’s wicked smile turns fond for Jensen confirms as much. Jensen catches the damp towel that Misha lobs at his head with a ridiculous amount of grace for someone who’s just been fucked senseless. It makes sense in a small way, that he would be so unaffected. His contradictions are different than Misha’s but they’re there all the same.

“So,” he says quietly, “That didn’t suck.”

As the shower starts up in the next room, he drags the towel across her skin with an amount of care and attention that she rarely shows herself.

It’s too much, a nudge beyond the edge of reason. And if she lets him do this, lets herself have this, she may stay.

Because Jensen is all of those things she misses in Misha.

“But I can’t,” she says, fingers wrapped firmly around his wrist to hold it still.

“You can’t what?”

He can’t possibly be as guileless as he’s putting on. It defies the laws of nature.

She sighs and says, “Do this,” because it’s the truth, even though she hates it.

Jensen snorts. “That ship has sailed,” he says, apologizing for his matter-of-factness by planting a kiss on the round of her shoulder.

It drives her up and into whatever clothes she can find. Luckily, they’ve not migrated far from where she shucked them not so long ago. She spends less time getting back into them than she did getting out.

Jensen stares at her, wearing that same furrow Misha put between his brows earlier.

“Take care of him, Jen,” she says and leans close to kiss his cheek. She wishes she could be the one to work that furrow free but she can’t, she won’t. It’s not good for her. Will never be. “Take care of him because I can’t anymore.”

“Alona?”

Her name sounds so good on his lips she could cry, but she won’t.

In the bathroom, she hears the tap squeak and the water stops and if she doesn’t leave now Misha will be there with his wicked smile and knowing hands and she _can’t_.

So she says goodbye to Jensen and runs – still smelling of sex and sweat and hating that she’d let go on this long. She’ll miss it; miss him for all his beautiful faults and childlike glee and the way he makes everything innuendo.

But he’ll never be what she needs, and she’s okay with that.


End file.
